Aroint

Aroint (pronounced uh-roint)

Begone (as imperative verb) (obsolete).

1595–1605: Of uncertain origin, it survives in English as a curiosity in the lexicon of the obscure, only because it was used by Shakespeare (only as an imperative) and its etymology has thus over the centuries been subject to much conjecture, none of which have ever been escorted by enough evidence to impress the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) which has never budged from origin unknown.  There are many words which, however neglected, not entirely forgotten only because they were used by Shakespeare, aroint appearing in both Macbeth and King Lear.  Aroint is a verb.

“Aroint thee, witch!” the rump-fed runnion cries!”
 (Macbeth, Act 1 Scene 3)

“And aroint thee, witch, aroint thee!”
 (King Lear, Act 3, Scene 4)

In the right circumstances, still a useful word still.  Donald Trump and crooked Hillary Clinton.

The origin of aroint has long intrigued Shakespearian scholars.  One nineteenth century theory linked it to a regional dialectical use in Cheshire where rynt, roynt & runt were recorded, milkmaids saying the phrase “rynt thee” to a cow, the beasts so used to the sound that swiftly they moved from her way.  In 1674, some sixty years after Macbeth and Lear were first performed, “rynt you” appeared in a provincial dictionary without any suggestion of further elucidation but the speculation continued.  English philologist John Horne Tooke (1736-1812) cited ronger, rogner & royner, claiming “from whence also aroynt”, all meaning a “separation or discontinuity of the skin or flesh by a gnawing, eating forward, malady”, offering a comparison with the Italian rogna (scabies, mange) and ronyon in Macbeth.  Other early candidates for the etymon are the French arry–avant (away there, ho!), éreinte–toi (break thy back or reins (used as an imprecation)), the Latin dii te averruncent (may the devils take thee) and the Italian arranca (the imperative of arrancare (plod along, trudge)).  Perhaps most obviously, many have mentioned aroint being an expected phonetic variant of anoint or acquiring in some contexts the figurative sense “thrash”, convincing to some because it hints at the common account of witches who were said to perform their supernatural acts by means of unguents.  There was also English diarist and prolific antiquary Thomas Hearne (1678–1735) who in his Ectypa Varia ad Historiam Britannicam (Selected Illustrated History of Britain (1737)) included an illustration of a devil, driving the damned while chanting “Out, out Arongt.”  Arongt resembles aroint and the sense is close but that’s never been enough to satisfy the etymologists.

Threatened with arointment.

In 2018, while operating the Lohan Beach House in Rhodes, Greece, Lindsay Lohan threatened to aroint two employees, their transgressive behavior being photographed wearing two different styles of shoes, one in nude heels, the other in blocky white platforms.  They were otherwise matching in cream robes but not content, Lindsay Lohan posted "Wear the same shoes please.  Or you’re fired."  Shoes were a serious matter at the Lohan Beach House.

One favourite theory of origin is the Rowan tree.  As early as 1784, it was suggested aroint has something to do with rauntree, one of several variants of “rowan tree”, an alleged virtue of which, mentioned in myth and folklore from Ancient Greece to Scandinavia, was its ability to deter witches, protecting people and cattle from evil.  The origin of this handy attribute lies in Norse mythology for Thor was once almost drowned in a river at the hands of a witch but he threw at her a great stone and was carried ashore, pulling himself from the depths by grasping at the limbs of a tree, forever after known as “Thor’s rescue.”  Thus began the tradition of shouting rauntree or rointree to chase away witches, of which there are many.  Rowan is a noun of Scandinavian origin (the Icelandic reynir; the Norwegian raun), the suggestion being an imprecation like a “raun“ to “reyn to thee” seems effortlessly to have slurred to become “aroint thee.”  Some are convinced, some not.

Alarum

Alarum (pronounced uh-lar-uhm or uh-lahr-uhm)

(1) An archaic variant of alarm, especially as a call to arms.

(2) In literary classification, a work written in the form of a warning.

(3) In the form “alarums and excursions”, a stage direction used in Elizabethan theatre (used only in the plural).

1585–1595: From the Middle English alarme & alarom, from the fourteenth century Old French alarme, from the Old Italian all'arme (a call to arms (literally “to the arms”) and understood in translation as “arm yourselves and prepare for battle!”), from the Latin arma & armorum (arms, weapons) (from which English ultimately gained armory).  The Old Italian all'arme was a contraction of the phrase alle arme, alle a contraction of a "to" (from the Latin ad) + le, from the Latin illas, the feminine accusative plural of ille (the) coupled with arme, from the Latin arma (weapons (including armor), literally "the tools or implements (of war)”), from the primitive Indo-European root ar- (to fit together).  Beyond purely military use, the interjection (which had once also been spelt all-arm) came by the late sixteenth century to be a general to be both a “warning of any danger or need to arouse” and the device generating the sound.  From the mid-fifteenth century it had conveyed a “state of fearful surprise" while the weakened sense of “apprehension or unease” dates from 1833.  In England, alarm clocks were first available in the 1690s and they were described as A Larum Clocks.  Alarum is a noun, the present participle is alaruming, the past participle alarumed; the noun plural is alarums.

The phrase alarums and excursions (used only in the plural) was a stage direction used in Elizabethan theatre drama.  It instructed the actors to create a scene suggesting military action, either by having them march across the stage, blowing bugles and beating drums or, as the script directed, performing fragments of a battle or other engagement.  In idiomatic use, it came to be used to allude to (1) the sounds and activities associated with the preparations for war and (2) by extension, any noisy, frantic, or disorganized activity.

Alarum is the old spelling of the modern alarm (as a noun or a verb) which has in literary classification retained a niche as a deliberate archaism, probably because it’s one of those words (like aroint) which endures because it appears in the works of Shakespeare.  There’s also some history of alarum as a poetic device where it’s deployed when the cadence requires “alarm” to be pronounced with a rolling "r" (although it’s not known if this was the practice in Middle English (and Shakespeare’s placement gives no clue).  Other than the technical uses describe, alarum has no use in modern English and if used as a substitute for alarm it will either confuse or be treated as a spelling mistake (which of course it is).

In the classification of non-fiction, an alarum is a work written as a warning.  It can be in the form of a polemic, a history or any other form and the label alarum is thus both a category and a sub-category applied to other classifications.  In this the label works the same way as something like apologia which is typically applied (not always with the agreement of the author) to memoirs and the like.

A classic example of the alarum is Friedrich von Hayek’s (1899–1992) Der Weg zur Knechtschaft (The Road to Serfdom (1944)), a book which warns that the inevitable consequence of governments controlling an economy through central planning is a tyrannical dictatorship and the sacrifice of individual freedom.  His thesis was widely read but gained renewed attention in the 1980s when an interpretation of the neo-liberal economic model he advocated was implemented in both developed and emerging economies with results good and bad.  What was unfortunate however was the impression that many politicians seemed to be acquainted only with the simplified edition issued in 1945 by the US magazine Reader's Digest, a version designed for those without formal training in economics which was easier to read but lacked some of the nuances of argument and the political subtleties which had so captivated certain intellectuals.  Hayek was in his views an elitist who seemed not to have a high opinion of the powers of most people abstractly to reason but he certainly defended their right to pursue what they perceived as their economic advantage.  In many ways the book seems at its best (for non-economists anyway) if read not as advocacy for a particular structure for an economy but as a work of political philosophy and digested this way, Hayek’s discussion of the language of politics is of special interest; his explanation of the way labels like “left” and “right” have become distorted both as descriptors and in the consequences of use remains influential.